


Peter’s Christmas Wish

by geekymoviemom



Series: Pieces of Echoes [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adorable Peter Parker, Baby Peter Parker, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Childhood Emotional Abuse, Kid Peter Parker, M/M, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Superfamily (Marvel), Toddler Peter Parker, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, tony stark is an awesome dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28014234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekymoviemom/pseuds/geekymoviemom
Summary: Sometimes Christmas wishes really do come true.To Tony, Christmas had always been just another day.  But to Peter, Christmas was a chance to help change their lives.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Pieces of Echoes [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1442440
Comments: 24
Kudos: 190
Collections: Irondad Fic Exchange 2020





	Peter’s Christmas Wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sdottkrames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdottkrames/gifts).



> My dear sdottkrames, I hope you enjoy this piece of Christmas fluff with biodad Tony! I had so much fun writing this! 💖 
> 
> Written for the IronDad Fic Exchange 2020 😊

_**Four months old.** _

"All right, little buddy, I promise it's really not this bad," Tony pleaded as he gently ran the chilled dummy nipple along his crying baby's bottom lip. He had put at least a dozen of the things in the fridge at the suggestion of Peter's paediatrician, who, after ruling out yet another ear infection as the cause of the sudden return of the colicky fussiness that Tony had hoped was behind them, suggested that Peter may have already begun the long and arduous process of teething. Tony had almost burst into tears himself at the news, prompting the paediatrician, who Tony absolutely adored, to quickly add that fussiness caused by teething was not usually as bad as colic, mainly because it was more intermittent.

'Not usually' were apparently the opportune words in that statement, because Tony sure hadn't seen any signs of anything even remotely resembling 'intermittent' as of yet. If he hadn't been running on only the barest of fumes when the doctor had explained that to him, he might've had the wherewithal to ask her about possible exceptions to that rule, specifically ones that happened to be named Peter Edwin Stark. Instead, Tony had just latched onto the words that he'd wanted to hear, dragged his screaming infant from the office—past all of the perfectly made-up mothers sitting in the waiting room with their perfectly well-behaved babies—and proceeded to race through the nearby drugstore to stock up on more dummies, formula, and infant paracetamol, all the while pointedly ignoring stares from the other store patrons who had to be convinced that Tony was secretly pinching the poor kid or something.

Oh, and then there was the unsolicited comment from the blue-haired and pointy-nosed old lady in the line behind him, who insisted that she would have never been seen in public with such an undisciplined child, and that unless Tony immediately taught him who was boss, both of their lives would be forever ruined.

Tony could still feel the teeth marks on his tongue from that one.

Good thing Stark men were made of iron.

The car ride home from the drugstore, through the infamous New York City rush hour traffic—made even worse by the hordes of holiday shoppers roaming the streets and _completely_ ignoring the traffic laws—back to the house that Tony absolutely abhorred felt like it took centuries. Stumbling into the kitchen with Peter still howling away in his carseat—and nearly tripping over the huge box of diapers that the nanny, Rosa, had left right in the goddamn _doorway_ before she went home—Tony had carefully gathered his distraught son close, whispering sweet nothings into his ear and patting his back as he attempted to psyche himself up to start Peter's old colic routine all over again.

Change, feed, clean up spit-up, bath, feed some more, clean up even more spit-up, wrap up in the wrap, bounce, plead, beg, and cry.

Lather, rinse, repeat, seemingly without end. Order subject to change without notice.

"That's right, little Petey," Tony murmured as Peter's tiny lips finally closed over the dummy's nipple, his huge brown eyes so soaked with tears that they were dripping from his long, thick eyelashes. "Cold's supposed to help your little mouth feel better, so you just keep on sucking, yeah? It's gonna be okay. Daddy's got you."

 _Please,_ he thought desperately. _Please, let it be okay!_

Because at the moment, the way things were going, Tony honestly wasn't sure how either of them were going to survive. There was no one else that he trusted to help him take care of Peter when he was like this, not even Rhodey, and it was that, the complete lack of a backup, which Tony was convinced might someday be his undoing.

But since there was nothing that he could do about it, Tony simply chose to push it out of his mind. He had tried the whole falling-in-love thing once, and all it had gotten him was a completely shattered heart, and a son with a mother who had chosen to abandon him.

_Fuck you, Nick Fury._

Pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Peter's head, Tony slowly stepped backwards until he was wedged into the corner by the kitchen table. Then he tipped his head back, squeezing his eyes closed in an attempt to alleviate some of the scratchiness that had been accumulating for the last three days. He didn't dare move much more than that, as experience had taught him that when Peter was this upset, even attempting to sit down in a chair was a monumental no-no.

"Mmm," Peter whimpered past his dummy, his little body shaking and shuddering as he continued to sniff, his tiny fingers gripping Tony's shirt so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"Yeah, yeah, that's it," whispered Tony as he cupped Peter's bum in his hand through the wrap. "Just try and sleep now, yeah? This'll all be over soon."

Of course, that statement was probably dependent on a more concrete definition of the word 'soon' than he could currently offer, but Tony was just too damn tired at the moment to give it the thought required for it to transform from observation to theory.

Five minutes later, as Peter's eyelids finally started to droop and his frantic sucking began to slow down a bit, Tony drew in a deep breath, letting it slowly out. The rock-hard muscles in his shoulders were screaming from fatigue, made worse by his awkward position, but he didn't dare move, too afraid to disturb his hard-won peace. There had been many a night—or day, as it were—during Peter's worst colicky times where Tony had only been able to grab a few ten- to fifteen-minute catnaps here and there, standing in the very same corner where he now stood, with his back ramrod straight and his arms curled around the little bundle tied to his front, the green apple scent of Peter's hair barely able to mask the underlying odour of spit-up that emanated up from Tony's shirt.

He was just on the edge of consciousness when Tony felt his phone buzz in his back pocket, causing him to startle so badly that he wrenched his neck. Grunting, Tony carefully pulled it out, rolling his eyes when he saw it was yet another missed call from Obadiah. The Stark Industries CFO had already tried to contact Tony five times since he'd rushed out of the office following Rosa's panicked call that Peter wouldn't stop crying, and Tony was _not_ in the mood to try to explain to Obie once again that his baby boy was more far, far important than whatever made-up crisis was going on at the company.

It was Christmastime, for heaven's sake. And despite the fact that Tony had loathed anything having to do with Christmas ever since his parents were killed—and really, even before that—he had still made sure to keep the company's calendar clear during that time. His own dislike of the holiday season was never a mentality that he had ever tried to push onto his employees. On the contrary, Stark Industries had one of the most family-friendly holiday policies in all of New York, with the offices completely closed from the day before Christmas Eve through New Year's Day. Howard Stark may have been a shitty family man himself, but even he had understood that happy employees were more efficient employees, and his holiday policy was one of the few of his that Tony had carried over without question when he took over as CEO.

Unfortunately, the pain in Tony's neck and shoulders had now ratcheted up to such an excruciating level that his entire body was trembling with the effort of trying to remain standing. He glanced down at Peter, noticing that while he seemed to be asleep, his tiny nose was all scrunched up and his eyes were tightly closed, as though he was sleeping under protest.

"Typical," Tony muttered as he slowly pushed himself away from the wall, tightening his grip on his baby's bum as he began shuffling towards the living room. He was certain that at least ninety-five percent of Peter's sleep during his first three months of life had been completed under protest, with Tony making sometimes every-hour-on-the-hour deals with the devil for "just five more minutes".

Lately though, all teething aside and despite his ever-present nose scrunch, Peter had been a bit better, sometimes even lasting a full four hours before waking up to eat. And so the slight possibility did exist that maybe, just maybe, Tony would actually be able to sit down on the couch and rest his weary bones a bit while Peter slept on his chest, his absolute favourite place to be.

Of course—and in hindsight, he really should've seen it coming—the odds were not in Tony's favour that evening. He had no sooner taken one step into the living room when his right foot found one of Peter's toys that had been left on the floor, one that just happened to squeak like it was trying to summon every single dog from New York, Jersey, Pennsylvania, and even fucking Massachusetts.

Or, like it was simply trying to wake an exhausted, frazzled, and in-pain four-month-old baby.

Which it did. So abruptly that Peter's head slammed up against Tony's chin, causing him to bite down so hard on his bottom lip that he nearly drew blood.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, the intense pain causing tears to pool in his eyes as Peter's nose scrunched up even more and he drew in a deep, rattly breath, one that always meant a howl was forthcoming.

"Oh God. No, no, no, no, no! Buddy, please!" Tony pleaded, all to no avail as Peter then threw his head back and let out an ear-splitting wail. The now-useless dummy dropped from his mouth, falling somewhere into the depths of the wrap as Tony began bouncing on his feet, resisting the strong urge to launch the offending toy right through one of the windows.

 _Goddamnit!_ Tony screamed inside his head as he buried his nose into Peter's hair, squeezing his baby's tense little body closer to him as Peter's fingers scrabbled at Tony's shirt and his cries increased in volume.

"Daddy's sorry, little buddy," he whispered in Peter's ear. "Daddy is so sorry that he woke you."

And Tony knew that would be it for sleeping, at least for the next couple hours or so. Experience had taught him that once Peter was woken up, even if he had only been asleep for a few minutes, it was pointless to try and get him back to sleep without starting the whole routine all over again.

Grunting in frustration, Tony kissed Peter's head and plodded back into the kitchen. "All right, little Petey. Let's get this going," he said as he started the pot of water on the stove so he could warm up a bottle. He scowled as he felt his phone buzz again in his pocket, finally taking it out and placing it facedown on the table. There was no way Tony was going to deal with anything work-related when Peter was still screaming and he was so tired that he could barely remember his own name. Obie was just going to have to suck it up.

Finally, about two hours later—or was it three? He had lost track about a week ago—Tony gathered his freshly-bathed and diapered baby and wrapped him securely to his chest, running the nipple of yet another cold dummy along his bottom lip. Peter's eyes were puffy and red from crying, and his entire little body was shaking as he squirmed against Tony, trying so hard to get comfortable.

"That's right, little buddy," Tony said, over and over again as he rubbed soothing circles on Peter's back. "It's gonna be okay. It's all gonna be okay."

_Please, let it be okay!_

And, as if Tony had been granted a visit by the Christmas wish angels, it actually was. Because as the clock slowly ticked past midnight into Christmas Eve and with the television tuned to some ancient VH1 AC/DC Christmas Special, Peter Edwin Stark, teether and screamer extraordinaire, finally, _finally,_ fell asleep against his daddy's chest, his little head wedged under Tony's chin and his ear pressed right over Tony's heart.

"Merry Christmas, little buddy," Tony whispered, brushing the softest of kisses across his baby's forehead. "Sweet dreams."

Then he tipped his head back and fell asleep, so deeply that not even the visions of sugarplums dared make an attempt to dance.

* * *

_**Two years, four months old.** _

"Dad-dy! Dad-dy! Pa-rade! Pa-rade!" Peter exclaimed, his little fists grabbing handfuls of Tony's t-shirt and yanking as they headed down the sweeping staircase of the Malibu house. Peter had just woken up from a nap, and Tony had been relieved to discover that JARVIS, the brand-new UI he had just finished uploading into the house, had informed Tony as such just as he had been programmed to do. After finding a screaming Peter dangling by his fingertips from the second-floor banister a few months back, Tony was no longer taking any chances with his little boy's safety. While still the size of an average-fifteen-month-old, at just over two years old Peter had already managed to master climbing out of his crib and scaling the top of the upstairs safety gate, skills that had then required Tony to get a bit more creative with his boy's sleeping arrangements. Instead of a crib, Peter now slept on a very low-to-the-floor toddler bed, one that while complete with a safety rail, still allowed him to get up on his own without having to climb over anything. The safety gate at the top of the stairs had been replaced with a newer model that Tony had then tied into JARVIS's programming. At the first sign of jostling, JARVIS would activate an alarm, alerting Tony that Peter was awake and reminding Peter that he was supposed to wait by the gate for Daddy to come and get him.

And after all of that, Tony had been beyond delighted to discover that not only had Peter actually understood his daddy's instructions on the very first try, he had also—semi-patiently—waited upstairs by the gate like he was supposed to the very first time Tony had activated it.

His tiny boy was _smart,_ and Tony could not have been prouder.

"Pa-rade?" Tony asked, chuckling as Peter giggled and kicked his legs. "What's that, little buddy?"

"Petey watch pa-rade!" Peter repeated. "Pease, Dad-dy? Wanna see Kermit da Frog and Cat in Hat. Pease?"

"Ohh," Tony said as they reached the main floor. "You mean the Christmas parade?" Peter had been so fascinated with the annual event the year before that in the months since then, Tony had taken to playing back the recording of it for him multiple times per week. Tony absolutely loved how his sweet boy would squeal in delight as each new obnoxiously massive float came into view, and how he would twirl and sing with the vocal and dance performances.

It also happened to work very well as a distraction whenever Tony needed to get some work done, which lately seemed like most of the time. Even though it was Christmas Eve and Stark Industries was on its two-week holiday break, that didn't mean he could spend the entire time doing nothing.

Missiles and automatic rifles didn't just design themselves, after all, and Obie was always extra cranky after the holidays, worrying needlessly about the lost production time and being extra naggy because of it.

Obie had also been nagging the hell out of Tony lately to hire a personal assistant, something that Tony had always been vehemently opposed to. The last thing Tony needed was yet another person telling him where to go and what to do, thank you very much. Especially since Obie already did it often enough for three people.

"You wanna watch your Christmas parade, Petey?"

Peter gave a very emphatic and wide-eyed nod, his corkscrew curls flopping over his forehead. "Uh huh! Uh huh! Pease, Dad-dy? Petey watch pa-rade?"

Tony grinned, kissing Peter's forehead. "Well, how 'bout Daddy gets you a snack first, yeah? Then you can come down to the workshop and watch?"

Peter tilted his head, scrunching his tiny nose and tapping his temple in such a perfect imitation of Tony that he couldn't help but laugh. As much as he might've hated to admit it, Peter was so much like him that even if he had wanted to deny that he was his son—which would never, _ever_ happen—there'd be no way in hell that anyone would believe him. Even before the doctor in Mount Sinai's neonatal intensive care unit had had the chance to point him out, Tony had known that Peter was his. His nose, the shape of his eyes, his long, piano-player fingers, his full head of dark brown curls, all of them were Tony's features.

And from that very first look, even in his semi-drunken, scared-out-of-his-bejeezus state, Tony knew that he would do absolutely _anything_ for his precious little boy.

No questions asked.

And he hadn't looked back since. Through the mind-numbing weeks in the NICU where he never left Peter's side and his outright panic when he first brought Peter home, to surviving Peter's seemingly never-ending colicky days— _and nights! Can't forget the nights!_ —and his adventures with teething—which were thankfully over for the time being—Tony had never once entertained the thought that he had made a mistake in answering that doctor's early-morning phone call.

Not a single damn time.

And while the occasional thought that it might've been nice to have a partner around to help share the load did tend to wander in from time to time, it was a thought that Tony always quickly escorted right back out again. He was simply not interested in opening himself up to a potential romantic partner because the risk of getting his heart broken again was just too high, and he had promised both himself and Peter numerous times that he would never put either of them in that position.

Besides. Who in their right mind would even want someone like him? His immense wealth aside, Tony's company was a weapons manufacturer, which, according to the people who didn't seem to like that little fact, meant that he was nothing but a warmonger. A war-profiteer.

The Merchant of Death, _Variety_ had so aptly called him.

 _Well, fuck all of those people,_ Tony thought grimly as he buckled Peter into his highchair in the spacious kitchen, handing him a thinly sliced piece of apple. He laughed as Peter immediately shoved it into his mouth, biting off a chunk and closing his eyes as he chewed. Peter adored apples, especially green ones that smelled like his shampoo, and Tony was only too happy to indulge him.

For a two-year-old, Peter sure seemed to know what he wanted. Which was just fine by Tony.

Pouring Peter a small cup of milk, Tony leaned back against the table, studying the ceiling while Peter ate and drank. He had promised Obie that he would start on the designs for Stark Industries' newest rifle over the holiday break, and had actually been able to make some decent headway on them in the last couple of days. But Tony's interest just wasn't there, which made it difficult for him to stay focused, which meant that he probably would not have a completed design ready by the time he and Peter returned to New York after the holidays.

Which meant that Obie would once again read him the riot act, and that was something that Tony was never in the right mood to hear.

Scrubbing his palm down his face, Tony glanced back down at Peter to find him waving his sippy cup up by his head, sending droplets of milk flying everywhere as he shoved his last bite of apple into his mouth.

"All done, Dad-dy!" he said through his mouthful. "Watch par-ade now? Pease?"

"All right, buddy," Tony said as he ruffled Peter's messy curls. "But first we've gotta clean up those sticky hands of yours, yeah?"

Peter's cup hit the tray of his highchair with a loud _clank_ as he obediently held out his hands palm-first towards Tony. Grabbing a baby wipe, Tony cleaned the sticky apple and milk residue from his son's hands and face—and hair—as his little legs started their usual anticipatory bicycle kicking, something that Tony had already had JARVIS record more than once because it was just too. Damn. Cute!

"Okay, little buddy," Tony said, chuckling as he picked up his vibrating boy, securing him on his hip. "We'll watch it down in Daddy's workshop, okay?"

"Uh huh!" Peter yelped, right into Tony's ear. "Par-ade! Par-ade! Par-ade!"

Like he had in his office back in New York, Tony had put together a completely cordoned-off play area for Peter in his Malibu workshop, complete with plenty of toys, a spare highchair and toddler bed, and even a small refrigerator for snacks and drinks. Kissing Peter's round cheek, Tony placed him down in the centre of the play area, watching as Peter immediately grabbed one of his beloved polar bear stuffed animals and hugged him to his chest.

"JARVIS, turn on the Christmas parade, will ya?" Tony asked.

"Of course, sir," replied JARVIS, the last word of which was drowned out by Peter's excited yelp as the huge Cat in the Hat balloon filled the play area's screen. Smiling as Peter squealed in delight, Tony headed over to his workstation, tapping his monitors to life. His shoulders dropped as a schematic of the new rifle appeared, the one that hadn't seen fit to complete itself while he was upstairs giving Peter his snack.

_Damnit._

It's not that he didn't like designing and building things. On the contrary, Tony absolutely loved designing and tinkering with stuff, and had since he was old enough to hold a tool in his hand. And he especially loved it when Peter tried to imitate him, holding his toy tools and building different designs with his Duplo blocks.

It was just… why'd it always have to be guns? And missiles? And bombs? Stuff that was meant to destroy other stuff?

Why couldn't he focus more on his new line of smartphones, which he'd managed to push through the Board of Directors despite Obie's objections. Or why couldn't he start looking into some more options for potentially clean energy? Like the arc reactor?

These questions were all rhetorical, of course, because Tony knew exactly why he couldn't do any of those things.

He was a coward. And as long as he remained as such, then his company would continue on as it always had, building newer and fancier weapons and making an absolute killing on all of its government contracts, just like Howard had always wanted. Howard had drilled into Tony's head from a very early age to never look a gift horse in the mouth, and, as much as Tony might've hated to admit it, he simply couldn't chance messing around with Peter's inheritance. Peter deserved the absolute best that Tony could give him, and as part of that, Tony had to make sure that if anything ever were to happen to him, Peter would be taken care of.

Which meant that he had to keep doing what he knew worked, while at the same time ensuring that Peter never felt pressured into following in his footsteps.

Because even the thought of Peter growing up to design more rockets and guns and bombs, of him ever being referred to as the Merchant of Death, was enough to make Tony feel sick to his stomach, and the last thing that Tony wanted was for his boy to feel like he had to achieve standards that were not only impossible, but where the pursuance resulted in the complete chipping away of his soul, a tiny piece at a time.

Tony was already way too familiar with that himself.

* * *

_**Six years, four months old.** _

Tony groaned softly as he tipped his head back against the lounging chair, the _beep, beep, beep_ of Peter's heart monitor the only sound. Through bleary eyes he watched as Peter's skinny chest rose and fell with his laboured but steady breaths, the twinkling of the red and blue Christmas lights wrapped around his IV tree reflecting off his teddy bear-covered hospital gown and the stark-white hospital bedding. One of his nurses had brought the lights in for him right after he'd had to suffer through yet another IV placement, her way of apologising for causing him pain. Being such a small, skinny boy, Peter's veins apparently didn't appreciate the powerful drugs he was on to fight the infection currently ravaging his lungs. This forced the nurses to have to rotate his IV sites every couple of days, leaving huge, purple bruises blooming across the pale skin of Peter's hands and arms.

Tony had always hated those bruises that marred his boy's beautiful skin. He'd always hated IVs too. Oh, and the constant stupid _beep_ of the monitors.

And the fact that they even had to be there in the first place.

But at least the lights were pretty enough.

Tony had just barely closed his eyes when he was startled by a harsh knock on the door. A second later it swung open with a long, high-pitched groaning noise, one that only amplified the intense throbbing behind Tony's eyes that the awful hospital-cafeteria coffee hadn't touched.

Throbbing that grew even worse when the night nurse stepped inside the room, her hands full of vials of nebuliser medicines and other various breathing treatment accessories. With a quick glance up at the wall clock, Tony let out a sharp groan of defeat. He had just— _finally_ —managed to get Peter to sleep only about fifteen minutes ago, and the thought that all of his begging and soothing and cajoling was now going to go to waste was enough to make his scratchy, exhausted eyes burn with tears.

"Do ya really have to do it now? I just got him to sleep," Tony asked the nurse as he rubbed at his temples, even as he already knew the answer. Since his admission for status asthmaticus caused by bilateral pneumonia almost a week ago, Peter had been on multiple medicines trying to treat the infection and inflammation in his lungs. The breathing treatments were an important part of that regimen, and given every two hours around the clock in an attempt to keep Peter's oxygen sats high enough to avoid needing to be intubated and put on a ventilator. And while Tony had absolutely no desire to ever see his beloved boy on a ventilator ever again, at the moment it didn't seem like the every-two-hour thing was all that much better as it didn't allow Peter to get anything close to a halfway decent amount of sleep.

Which, given the "yucky" bed with the "scratchy" sheets and all of the "icky" hospital smells, not to mention the "scary" hissing noise that the nebuliser made during each treatment, and it was a wonder that any kid ever managed to get better under such conditions.

Add in the fact that it was already Christmas Eve and Peter was nowhere near ready to be discharged, and Tony had all the makings of one absolutely miserable little boy, one that not even his favourite Captain America comic book could seem to cheer up. Peter had cried so hard once he'd realised that he was going to miss going to the Christmas parade for the first time in three years that he had turned blue, requiring the doctors to transition him to an oxygen face mask for twenty-four hours until his oxygen levels were able to climb back up again. He was back on the "annoying" nasal tubes now, so Tony could at least see most of his face again, but his fingers were still ice-cold and his skin was still practically the same colour as his sheets, all of which meant that this year they would be celebrating Christmas in the hospital.

Yay.

"I'm really sorry, Mr Stark, but Peter can't miss a treatment," the nurse replied, not without a touch of sympathy. "But he is slowly getting better, so hopefully the doctor will be able to transition him to every four hours in the next day or so."

Tony nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, we can always hope." Then he sucked in a deep breath and gently shook Peter's shoulder, his heart lurching when Peter's nose scrunched up in annoyance.

"Mmm, Daddy!" he whined, punctuated by a series of coughs that were so wet and awful-sounding that they nearly caused Tony's already frazzled nerves to snap. "'M Tired! Wanna sleep!"

"I know you're tired, buddy, but it's time for another treatment," Tony whispered as he kissed Peter's round, flushed cheek. "Soon as it's done you can go back to sleep, all right?"

"No! Don't wanna!" Peter yelped, turning onto his side and curling into a ball. "I hate the breathing treatments! They make me feel all yucky, like I'm jittering!"

"Oh, sweetheart, I know you hate them," said the kind nurse. Setting down the nebuliser, she readied her stethoscope, placing the bell on Peter's back. "But your lungs are still pretty sick, okay? And they need their medicine if they're going to get better enough for you to go home."

"Hmph," grumbled Peter, muffled against his pillow. "It's 'cause my lungs are dumb. They get sick way too often."

"Now, buddy, what did we say about that kind of talk, hmm? It's not your lungs' fault that they get sick a lot," Tony admonished. He ran his fingers through Peter's messy curls, wishing with everything in him that he could somehow just make it all go away. "C'mon, buddy. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can go back to sleep, all right? It's just for a few minutes."

Peter sighed, so heavily that Tony was afraid he might disappear into the mattress.

"Uh huh," he said sadly. Then he cleared his throat, or at least, made an honest attempt to do so, and rolled back over, eyeing the nurse like she was the Grinch coming to steal his Christmas as he held out his hand for the nebuliser apparatus.

"I'm ready."

"That's a sweet boy," the nurse said as she started the machine. A few heartbeats later the familiar cloud of mist appeared, and Peter stuck out his bottom lip as he sank back against his pillows, the end of the tubing held tight between his teeth. The stuff smelled like wet styrofoam, and, according to Peter, tasted like it as well, so it was no wonder that he hated it.

"I'll be back in about fifteen minutes, okay?" said the nurse, patting Peter's head.

"Thanks," Tony said as she exited the room. As much as he hated that they had to be there in the first place, at least the nurses had all been top-notch.

Which, Tony realised, probably had a lot to do with who he was. Despite the fact that Tony's social life had been almost non-existent since Peter was born, he knew that his former ruthless party-boy reputation still tended to precede him, and he supposed that no one wanted to be known as the nurse or doctor who messed up Tony Stark's kid.

And that was honestly just fine with Tony. As long as Peter got the absolute best care possible, Tony could not have given a rat's ass about what people thought of him.

He only wished that Peter didn't have to be so sick all the time.

The doctors in the NICU had warned Tony when Peter was born that his lungs were underdeveloped, and because of that he could potentially struggle with lung issues for the rest of his life. And while Peter had managed to escape all of the other potential ramifications of being born too soon, he unfortunately hadn't escaped the lung problems. Formally diagnosed with asthma at age three, Peter had been on a slew of inhalers, nebulisers, and the occasional oral steroid regimen ever since then, trying to keep his airways clear enough so he could easily breathe.

But, as his paediatrician had warned Tony, sometimes not even the most perfect medication regimen was enough to ward off everything, a fact that Tony was still coming to grips with. Peter had been completely fine for most of the fall, needing only the occasional middle-of-the-night breathing treatment until about a week ago when he woke up with a cough. Tony had decided to keep him home, not wanting him exposed to the other snotty-nosed kids at school if his immune system was already under attack. Peter, of course, had protested, clinging to Tony's legs and pleading that his sniff would be gone by the time he got to school. It had taken all of Tony's strength to unwrap Peter's skinny arms from his legs and leave him with his nanny, brushing tears from his eyes as he drove to work and wishing with all of his might that he could somehow figure out how to clone himself.

And then, much to Obie's dismay, right in the middle of a missile design meeting came the phone call from the nanny, telling Tony that Peter had spiked a high fever and was having trouble breathing. After ordering her to call 911, Tony had then bolted out of the meeting without so much as a backward glance, arriving at the hospital just as the ambulance carrying his poor boy pulled into the Emergency bay.

His poor, sick boy who not only had pneumonia, as it turned out, but had it in both lungs, with his right lung so badly infected that one of its lobes had collapsed, requiring the doctors to have to insert a tube into Peter's chest for the first thirty-six hours of the hospital stay. Peter had been so distraught over having to be admitted in the first place—" _it's just a sniff, Daddy, I swear!"_ —that the doctors eventually had to sedate him in order to keep him from jostling the chest tube loose, which nearly sent Tony into a full-blown panic attack. Thankfully he was able to get Rhodey on the phone to help talk him down, but not before Tony's chest got so tight that he feared he was having an actual heart attack, something he had no desire ever to experience.

The memories of Peter as a tiny premature baby who wasn't expected to survive his first twelve hours of life still haunted Tony, and that had been the closest he had ever come to having to relive that awful time. If he hadn't been able to get a hold of Rhodey when he did… well…

Actually, Tony didn't really want to think about it. He had made the conscious decision to raise Peter on his own the very moment he'd set eyes on him, and nothing was going to deter him from that.

And the iron walls he had built around his heart weren't there because he was too scared to ever allow himself the chance to fall in love again, they were just there to fortify it. To strengthen it.

For Peter's sake.

Because Tony simply didn't have the energy to be both a partner and a father. He just didn't. And the fact that he had now been at the hospital with Peter non-stop for the last six days without a single break longer than a few minutes was just… well… it was just how it had to be.

Besides. Who would want him anyway? He was nothing but an iron monger. A war profiteer.

The Merchant of Death.

Good thing he was made of iron, or he probably would have crumbled into dust by now.

As the minutes ticked by, with the hissing of the nebuliser creating a sort of discordant harmony with the beep of the heart monitor, Tony kept on rubbing Peter's head, gently pressing his fingertips into his scalp. Peter had loved getting his head rubbed ever since he was a baby, and Tony breathed out a sharp sigh of relief when his tense little body finally began to relax again.

"That's my good boy," Tony murmured once all of the medicine was gone. Piling the tubing and vials onto Peter's rolling table, Tony gave him a quick drink of water and smoothed the curls from his forehead, pressing a kiss there before tucking his blankets back up to his neck. "Try and sleep now, buddy, yeah?"

"Mmm," Peter mumbled, even as his eyelids began to droop. "Feel all icky, Daddy. Wanna cuddle."

Despite everything, Tony smiled. There was something just too damn precious about his self-proclaimed "big boy" asking to cuddle with his daddy. Even if it was because he was sick.

"You got it, bud," he whispered as he pressed another kiss to Peter's forehead. Carefully, so as not to yank on his IV or monitor wires, Tony crawled onto the narrow hospital bed and gathered his trembling son into his arms, laying him with his head resting on Tony's chest, over his heart.

Peter's happy place, he always said.

"Better, buddy?" he whispered once the blankets were all tucked around them, his stiff, exhausted body protesting in various pops and creaks as he slowly moulded into the thin hospital mattress.

"Uh huh," Peter murmured as his hand fisted in Tony's shirt. "Loads."

"Good. Sleep now, yeah?"

Peter yawned, so hard that his entire skinny body shuddered once he was done.

"Uh huh, Daddy. Merry Christmas."

A knot rose in Tony's throat, one that he quickly tried to swallow down. Through no fault of Tony's, his son had become such a huge fan of all things Christmas that Tony could no longer just brush it off as a simple toddler or little-kid fascination. While he had stopped short of putting up a tree, a tradition that still reminded him too much of his deceased mother, Peter's bedroom boasted plenty of twinkling lights and a tinsel wreath that he'd made with his nanny when he was four. Peter had also insisted that Tony take him to watch the Christmas parade in person for the last three years, and that they shop for presents, presenting one to his teachers at school, Tony's personal assistant, Pepper, and all of the doctors, nurses, and other staff working in the Mount Sinai NICU, where Peter had spent the first several weeks of his life. Never asking anything for himself, Peter absolutely loved seeing the delighted faces of his gift recipients, and it had nearly broken Tony's heart to have to tell him that his gift-giving would have to be postponed this year until after he was better.

It was almost as if Peter knew that his daddy had always hated anything having to do with the December holidays, and was slowly but surely steering him from his despair-turned-indifference back to joy.

"Merry Christmas to you too, buddy," Tony whispered into Peter's hair, inhaling the green apple scent that he loved. "I love you."

"Uh huh. Don't forget to make your Christmas wish."

Tony's lips curled into the slightest of smiles. "I won't, bud."

"I already made mine," Peter said, muffled against Tony's chest. "And it's gonna come true too."

"Oh, yeah?" asked Tony. "And what was that?"

Peter lifted his head, eyeing Tony warily. "You know if I tell you, it won't come true, right?"

Tony playfully rolled his eyes. "Well, something tells me you wouldn't have brought it up if you hadn't wanted me to ask." He raised an eyebrow, grinning when Peter smirked. "Eh? I'm right, aren't I?"

"Maybe," Peter said through his mischievous smile. He laid his head back down, his skinny arms tight around Tony's body. "I wished for someone to come and love you."

"Oh," Tony said on a gasp, his throat tight with emotion. Of course his selfless child would wish for something for Tony while lying in the hospital with pneumonia on Christmas. "Buddy, you know I don't need someone like that. I have you."

"Nah, that's not what I mean," insisted Peter. "I don't mean I want a brother or sister. I want a mommy, or another daddy, if that's who you pick. Someone to help you."

"Well, Pepper already helps me, bud, and you've got Rosa to help you, so… why do you think I'd need someone else?"

"'Cause you're lonely," Peter answered, so matter-of-factly that Tony's heart slammed right up against its iron walls, causing him to grunt. Tony had never, ever said anything of the sort around Peter, had always been extra careful to not breathe a word of his romantic misfortunes anywhere around him, and yet his little six-year-old self had somehow managed to figure it out all on his own.

Apparently Peter was far too perceptive for his own good.

"It's not good for daddies to be so lonely, Daddy, and especially for Christmas," Peter added. "So I wished for someone to come and love you."

Tony's throat was so tight he could barely speak, finally clearing it with difficulty. "Buddy, sometimes people just aren't meant to be loved, and that's okay," he said softly. "I'm too busy for anyone anyway."

"No, you're not," replied Peter. "You keep Pepper really busy, but she still finds time for Mr Happy."

Tony sighed, shaking his head. He should've known better than to debate something like this at whatever godawful time it was. "Okay, Mr Six-Going-On-Sixteen, I think it's time for you to sleep now."

"Uh huh," Peter said. "But since I wished it, that means it's gonna come true. So you'd better watch out."

"Ah," Tony said with wide eyes. "You really think that's how it works, hmm?"

Peter lifted his head again, giving Tony what he'd come to call his _duh_ look.

"Of course it is, Daddy," he said. "Christmas wishes always come true."

* * *

_**Eleven years, four months old.** _

"But Dad, you _promised!"_ Peter cried, his brown eyes wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "You promised that you'd be done in time for us to go to the parade, and it starts in less than thirty minutes!"

"Buddy, I know I did," Tony said as he scrubbed his palm down his face. "But I also promised Obie that I'd have these specs completed by the end of the week, and since they're not done yet, that means that I have to—"

"It means you need a break, Dad, not that you need to pull another all-nighter working on a design that's already perfect!" Peter pointed to the hologram floating in the middle of Tony's work area, the one that Tony had been up fiddling with nonstop for the last thirty-six hours. "You know that Obie doesn't know the first thing about designing a missile system, so if you say it's ready, then he has to believe you!"

Tony dropped his shoulders, shaking his head. "Bud, I know that. But this new Jericho system is gonna—"

"Change modern warfare," Peter finished, scowling as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I've heard the tagline. And yeah, Obie's probably right that it will. Or at least, it will until he tells you that it's not anymore so you have to design another one. And then another one, and then another one!" He scoffed, raking his fingers through his messy curls. "I mean, geez, Dad! There can't be that many ways to design a missile, so whatever you're doing now probably isn't even necessary."

"Yeah, Pete, I know that," said Tony. His boy had always been too smart for his own damn good. "Look, bud, it's not only the missile. You just got over from being sick again too, so—"

"Dad, that was just a cold, and it only lasted a few days!" Peter yelped. "I'm completely better now, and you know it!"

"Yes, _child,_ I happen to be aware of that too," Tony said evenly. "But it's still probably not the best idea to go standing out in the freezing cold around hundreds of people who're gonna be screaming and yelling right in your face, don't ya think?"

Peter huffed, his eyebrows knitting together into such a severe frown that Tony had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. At age eleven and change Peter still looked like a little kid but already believed himself to be a grownup, which at times made for some pretty interesting—and humorous—conversations.

"Fine," he finally said, his long, skinny arms wrapped tightly around his front. "I guess I'll just go back to my room and watch it on TV. Some Christmas."

Tony's heart lurched at Peter's _woe-is-me_ tone, but he stood his ground anyway. He was right and he knew it, even if it made him feel like the world's biggest heel. Peter's last illness may have been 'just a cold', but it had still thrown him for a pretty big loop, and the last thing Tony wanted was for him to relapse right before school started back up.

"Sounds good," he said. "And don't forget to order some food too, yeah? Don't want you going hungry."

"Hmph," Peter said as he turned on his heel. "I'll get something to eat once you do."

Tony let out a heavy sigh as he watched his boy stomp out of the lab. Usually the two of them got their Christmas lunch/dinner/whatever after the parade was over, but since they wouldn't be going this year, Tony honestly had no idea what they would end up eating.

Regardless, at only seventy-five pounds soaking wet, Peter could not afford to miss any meals, especially right after he was sick, so…

"Hey, JARVIS?"

"At your service, sir," replied the UI. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Ahh, call Antonio's for me, will ya? Order up some lasagna and garlic bread for Pete?" Tony asked. Antonio's was on the parade route, and so would at least be selling pizza by the slice. But Tony had a feeling they would gladly accommodate his order once JARVIS gave them his name.

Being Tony Stark did have some perks, after all.

"And enough for yourself as well, correct, sir?" asked JARVIS.

Tony rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Yeah, knock yourself out."

"Very good, sir. The order has been placed, with an estimated delivery time of forty-five minutes."

"Thanks, J."

"You are most welcome."

Picking up his half-empty coffee cup, Tony downed the rest of it in three big gulps, grimacing as the bitter, lukewarm liquid worked its way down his throat. As much as he hated to admit it, Peter had been right. Tony had stayed up all night working on that goddamn missile when in reality he could've been done with it in only a couple of hours if he had so wanted.

He had just been procrastinating. Putting off telling Peter that he thought they should skip the parade until fifteen minutes before they were supposed to leave, and then just expecting him to be okay with it.

 _I am such an asshole sometimes,_ he thought as he swiped at the hologram, watching as it spun. He ran his fingers down his goatee as he studied it, making a few tweaks here and there to the propulsion system when JARVIS spoke up again.

"Pardon me, sir, but I have just received a message from Mr Stane."

Tony groaned, dropping his chin to his chest. "Yeah? What the hell does he want now?"

"Just to inform you that the weapons demonstration for the Jericho missile system has been scheduled for the twentieth of February, at the Bagram Air Base located in Afghanistan."

" _What?"_ Tony exclaimed as his jaw nearly hit the floor. "Why in the goddamn _hell_ do I have to fly all the way out there? Can't the generals just come here? Or D.C.? That's a helluva lot closer than fucking Afghanistan!"

"Apparently not, sir," JARVIS said, rather apologetically. "Mr Stane reports that the situation in Afghanistan is currently too fragile to allow the proper authorities leave to witness the Jericho demonstration."

"Well, shit," muttered Tony. "And they just happen to know now that it'll still be that way in February, for God's sake?"

"I do not know, sir," JARVIS said after a short pause. "Would you like me to contact Mr Stane?"

"No, no, don't worry about it," Tony said quickly. "Just… let Fury at SHIELD know that I won't be available during that time, yeah? Tell him it should only take a few days."

"Already done, sir," said JARVIS.

"Thanks." Tony let out an annoyed sound, shaking his head. Obie could be such a jerk sometimes, and it bothered Tony to no end how often he fell into one of his traps. The only reason Obie had sent that message today instead of yesterday or a week from now is because he assumed that Tony would be so busy spending Christmas day with Peter that he wouldn't have the time or energy to call him out on his assholery.

He had been played. Again.

_Fine. Be that way._

Pursing his lips, Tony collapsed the hologram and shut down his monitors. He had already wasted enough time obsessing over yet another stupid missile, and now it was time to try and smooth things over with his upset son.

After dropping off his three coffee cups in the kitchen, Tony headed to Peter's room. He found him on his bed, lying on his stomach with his chin in his hands as he idly flipped through the old, tattered Captain America comic book he had loved since he was five.

"Hey, Pete," he called as he rapped on the doorway with his knuckle. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," Peter answered without looking up. A knot rose in Tony's throat as he stepped inside, noticing that while the parade was on the TV, Peter had muted the sound.

"Didn't feel like listening, hmm?" he asked as he sat down on the bed.

Peter shook his head, his curls flopping down over his forehead as he turned to the next page in his book. "Nope."

"Mmm." Tony jerked his head towards the comic. "You know, I'm surprised you don't have that thing memorised by now."

"Oh, I do," Peter replied, rather smugly. "It's still fun to read though."

"Well, I'm glad you think so." Personally, Tony could've done without his son's admiration for a guy who'd been dead for over sixty years, but he knew that was heavily influenced by his own father's literal obsession with the very same guy, to the point where he had on more than one drunken occasion, told Tony flat-out that he wished he'd had Steve Rogers back instead of Tony.

But, like everything else, Tony hadn't said a word about it the day he'd discovered Peter sitting in Howard's old office in the Malibu house, the very room where he had piled all of Howard's junk after he died. Huge, sprawling maps of the Arctic, predictions for glacier movements, ocean current reports for the last fifty years, and, probably the most cringe-worthy thing of all, multiple copies of every single Captain America comic book that the U.S. Army had published during the war, all in mint condition.

Tony had hoped that by storing it all in that one room that it might one day just up and vanish on its own, but the day he'd found Peter in there surrounded by comic books, instead of chastising his son for entering a room he'd specifically told him not to, he had simply sat down on the floor with his little boy in his lap and listened as Peter read the book to him, his tiny, five-year-old voice enunciating every single word perfectly.

Because Tony had promised when Peter was born that he would be a better father to him than Howard ever was, and while he hadn't thought that would include having to tell Peter all about the man he had grown up despising, Tony supposed it didn't really matter. If Peter was interested, then Tony was going to be supportive, even if he had to grit his teeth while he talked about Steve fucking Rogers, the super soldier extraordinaire who had single-handedly won World War II.

Or so Howard had said.

"So, what's ole Rogers up to now, hmm?" Tony asked as he jerked his head towards the comic. "Punching out Hitler again?"

"Yeah, he did that a few pages ago," Peter said, turning another page. He tilted the book so Tony could see better. "Now he's leading another HYDRA raid with his Howling Commandos, in Austria. See?"

"Ah huh," said Tony, even though he pretty much had the damn thing memorised too. "And how many brave soldiers did he rescue that day?"

"Over a hundred," Peter answered with the slightest hint of a smile. "Dad, you already know all of this, don't you?"

Tony shrugged. "Well… yeah… but so do you, buddy. I'm just—"

"Dad, it's okay," Peter said. He looked up, his brown eyes serious as they met Tony's. "Olive branch accepted."

"Oh, thank God," Tony rushed out, before he even knew what he was saying. He placed his hand on Peter's shoulder, his heart leaping when Peter curled into his arms, tucking his head under Tony's chin. "Pete, you're right. I should've told you last night about the parade, and I'm sorry. I just—"

"You just need to stand up for yourself sometimes," Peter said, muffled in Tony's chest. "Obie bullies you 'cause you let him, and it's just not right. And I hate seeing you so unhappy."

Tony sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of Peter's curly head. "Pete, you know you don't have to worry about me."

"Yeah, but I still do," said Peter. "It's not good for you to be alone all the time."

Tony internally groaned. "Buddy, I have told you this about a zillion times. Sometimes people just aren't meant to—"

"Yeah, and I still don't believe you," Peter cut in. "I think you're just too scared to try. Which I don't get at all, but anyway." He lifted his head, adjusting his glasses. "It's gonna happen when you least expect it. You just watch."

"Okay, Pete," Tony said after a few heartbeat's pause. "If you say so."

"Well, I do," Peter said petulantly. He glanced down at his comic book, pointing to Captain America riding on his motorcycle, his Stars and Stripes shield held high. "You think anyone will ever find him?"

"Who, Steve Rogers? Nah," said Tony. "Guy's been dead for over sixty years, so there's really no point, is there?"

Peter shrugged. "Well, I'd bet Director Fury would be happy to get his shield back, at least."

"Oh, I'm sure he would," Tony said, rolling his eyes. "But anyway, our food should be here soon, so why don't we go and turn the parade on in the living room, yeah?"

"Uh huh. JARVIS said you ordered from Antonio's? Yum!"

"That's my boy," Tony said as he ruffled Peter's hair. "Go on and wash your hands, yeah?"

With a nod, Peter climbed off his bed and shuffled into his bathroom. As soon as he heard the water turn on, Tony glanced down at the comic, his upper lip curling into a sneer as his eyes landed on Steve Rogers, and the _give 'em hell_ expression on his face underneath his traditional cowl. Tony had been joking when he'd said that Rogers had single-handedly won the war, but even without all of Howard's ridiculous hyperbole, Tony had come to realise over the years that Rogers had definitely made it a hell of a lot easier for the United States to win.

"Hmph," Tony muttered. "If only he'd had some of my guns."

"Ready?" Peter asked as he emerged from the bathroom.

"Yep," answered Tony. After grabbing some drinks from the kitchen, they headed into the living room, and had just turned on the TV when JARVIS announced that their food had arrived.

"Mmm, this is so yummy!" Peter said as he stuffed a slice of garlic bread as big as his hand into his mouth. "Thanks, Dad."

"You're welcome, bud," Tony said. He took a bite of his own bread, leaning back on the couch as the creepy-as-hell Elf on a Shelf balloon appeared on the screen. The food was decent enough, which was all he could expect for a last-minute order on Christmas. It didn't even come close to Mr Jarvis's standards, but Tony had yet to find anyone who could cook lasagna and garlic bread as well as Edwin Jarvis.

If only he were still alive. Then maybe Peter wouldn't be so insistent on Tony finding a partner.

"Merry Christmas, Dad," Peter said a few minutes later, giving Tony a smile he knew he didn't deserve. It had been on the tip of Tony's brain to tell Peter about his upcoming Afghanistan trip, but he decided against it. The trip was still almost two months away, and he had already ruined Peter's Christmas enough. It could wait.

"Merry Christmas, buddy."

* * *

_**Twelve years, four months old.** _

"Steve! Open mine next!" Peter exclaimed from his spot in Steve's lap as he pointed to the biggest box under the tree, one that Tony had helped him carefully wrap the night before.

"All right, little guy," Steve said, laughing as he reached for the box. It wasn't easy for him to open with his lap full of gangly twelve-year-old, but he managed anyway, his gorgeous blue eyes widening in awe as he unearthed the brand-new canvases, brushes, and paints that Tony and Peter had so carefully selected.

"Oh, wow…" Steve breathed as he picked up one of the brushes, running the soft bristles across his palm. "This is—these are _perfect!"_ He curled his arms around Peter, hugging him as he leaned over to peck Tony on the lips. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"Yeah. Course," Tony whispered past the huge knot in his throat as he smiled stupidly at his drop-dead gorgeous boyfriend, or fella, as Steve liked to say. Then he pressed his palm to his chest, over the round hunk of metal and electromagnet that was now responsible for keeping the jagged shards of shrapnel stuck in his heart from killing him.

His miniaturised arc reactor, one that he'd built from various weapons scraps inside the cave where he and Peter were kept prisoner for almost three months.

Three fucking months.

"All right, little guy, how 'bout you open this one next," Steve said as he handed Peter a medium-sized box, one that Tony could tell he had wrapped himself from the absolutely impeccable corners.

Because of course Steve Rogers, super soldier extraordinaire, would not only be the most beautiful specimen of a man that Tony had ever laid eyes on, he would also be an expert gift-wrapper.

As if already being a premiere artist, an expert chef, and the most perfect gentleman that Tony had ever seen wasn't enough. In fact, if Tony's math was right—and it always was—then he was certain that Steve Rogers was actually the most perfect man in the entire world.

The most perfect man that, for some still-unfathomable reason and despite all of Tony's attempts to convince him otherwise, had not only chosen to fall in love with Tony, but also loved Peter as if he were his very own child.

And all it had taken for them to meet had been the most frightening experience of Tony and Peter's lives. The ill-fated trip to Afghanistan.

It was still hard for Tony to wrap his mind around it, almost as if the last several months had all been some sort of fucked-up fever dream. Tony's last-minute decision to bring Peter along when Rosa got called away. The bombing attack on their Humvee. Waking up in a freezing-cold cave to find his chest hooked up to a car battery. Building the tiny arc reactor. Bartering with their kidnappers for food and medicines for Peter when he started to deteriorate, and finally, building the armoured suit that allowed them to escape, losing Yinsen in the process.

And then, just as Tony had feared that after all that he might still lose Peter, Steve Rogers— _of all people!_ —had suddenly appeared at the top of a nearby sand dune like a goddamn angel, racing towards them just as Peter went limp in Tony's arms. Tony had been so hysterical that he'd barely been able to speak, begging Steve to do something— _anything_ —to save his precious boy.

And he _had._ Without a single second's hesitation, Steve had laid Peter out in the sand, and proceeded to save his life.

From that point on, no matter how much Tony tried to deny it, he was a goner.

"Whoa!" Peter exclaimed as he tore off the final piece of wrapping and held up his brand-new Gilbert's erector set, one that could've been straight out of a Woolworths catalogue. "Steve, this is so awesome! Thank you!"

"You're very welcome, Peter," Steve said, relief evident on his face. "I'm so glad that you like it!"

"Will you help me set it up in my room later?" Peter asked as the Victrola Steve had set up in the corner wound to a stop. "Please?"

"You guys should have some time before Happy and Pepper come up for dinner, buddy," said Tony. That would also give him time to work on his new Iron Man suit, since the last one got all shot up to hell during his last mission, when he'd liberated Yinsen's village from the same Ten Rings terrorists who had taken him and Peter prisoner.

It had been Yinsen who had performed Tony's life-saving heart surgery, and who had stitched Peter's head wound closed during their captivity. During their escape, he had chosen to sacrifice himself in order to give Tony and Peter more time, and ever since then, Tony had vowed that he would avenge him.

And while he had managed to liberate Yinsen's home village, the mission was nowhere near completed. During his digging around, Tony had discovered that the Ten Rings organisation was far, far larger than either the U.S. Military or SHIELD had believed, and now there was no way that Tony could rest until every last one of them had been flushed out of their foxholes.

But that was a discussion for another day. It was Christmas, after all, and Tony was going to let his boys— _his boys!—_ enjoy it.

It was ridiculous, really, how easily Steve had slid right into their everyday lives. Tony had tried so hard to keep his distance, constantly reminding himself that he had grown up hating everything to do with Steve Rogers as he'd tried to fight against his growing feelings. Peter, of course, had jumped at the chance to help Steve get accustomed to the twenty-first century, guiding him through everything from grocery shopping and working the microwave and stove to introducing him to all of his favourite books and movies, many of which were now Steve's new favourites as well.

It had been the perfect way for Peter to start to forget what had happened to them, and after watching how easily Peter was able to fall in love with Steve, it was only a matter of time before Tony realised that he could no longer deny that he had done the same.

Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, reformed playboy, and philanthropist, had actually fallen in love with none other than Captain America himself.

It was like the perfect storm of perfection, one that still sent Tony's head spinning. Even the last few days had been like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, from watching as Steve and Peter decorated the first Christmas tree Tony had seen since his mother died to sitting on beanbag chairs and drinking homemade hot cocoa afterwards, complete with whipped cream and candy cane stirrers, of course.

They had even gone ice skating at Rockefeller Centre, something Tony had once sworn he would never, ever do. And, just like Peter had told him he would, Tony had had an absolute blast.

It truly was amazing the difference a year could make. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Tony could honestly say that he was optimistic for his future. Falling in love with Steve had given him confidence he hadn't realised he was capable of, confidence he had then used to not only finally shut down the weapons' manufacturing at Stark Industries, but also to completely get rid of Obie and allow Pepper to take over as CEO, leaving Tony free to do what he enjoyed best. Innovate.

Picturing the way Howard was likely rolling in his grave from all of the changes only made it that much better. Not that he enjoyed thinking about his father all that much, but Tony couldn't help but wonder if Howard would have still held so much admiration for Steve if he would've known that SHIELD would finally find him frozen in the Arctic ice, and that the first thing he would be sent to do afterwards would be to search for Tony and Peter.

Irony, it seemed, was not without a sense of humour.

"Did you have a good day today, Dad?" Peter asked as Tony tucked him into bed later that night.

"Yeah, bud, I sure did," Tony whispered. He brushed the hair from Peter's forehead, pressing a kiss there. He didn't have to ask Peter if he'd had a good day. It was written all over his sweet, smiling face, even though he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Mmm. I thought so," Peter murmured. He forced his eyes back open, peering at Tony through his eyelashes. "Steve really loves you, you know. I can see it whenever he looks at you."

Tony automatically smiled, like he always did whenever he thought of Steve. "Yeah, bud, I know. I can see it too."

"And you love him," added Peter. "'Cause you're just as googly-eyed when you look at him too."

"Googly-eyed, hmm?" Tony said with a laugh. _Can Tony Stark actually get googly-eyed?_ He trailed his fingertips down Peter's round cheek. "I love you, bud. Sleep good, yeah?"

"Uh huh, Dad. Love you too," Peter said. He breathed in a deep breath through his nose, rolling onto his side. "Do you think you guys will ever get married?"

"Oh God, Pete, let's not get carried away, okay?" Tony said quickly. "We've only been together for a few months, so—"

"I think you will," Peter stated. "I told Steve it was okay for two men to get married now, so I bet he's already thinking about it."

Tony dropped his head. He had realised years ago that it was pretty much useless to argue with Peter about certain things, and even less so when he was exhausted.

"We'll see, bud, okay?" he said. "But now it's time for you to sleep."

"Uh huh. 'Night, Dad. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too, bud," Tony said as he kissed him again. "Sweet dreams."

He had just reached the door when Peter spoke up again. "See, Dad? I told you Christmas wishes always come true."

Tears welled in Tony's eyes, tears he quickly brushed away as he turned to face his precious boy. The boy he had come so close to losing in that hateful desert.

The boy that Steve had saved without hesitation, and in doing so, had saved them both.

"You sure did, Pete," Tony whispered. "Remind me never to doubt you again."

Peter smiled, his arms tightening around his ancient polar bear.

"Don't worry," he said, rather proudly. "I will."

Returning to the living room, Tony found Steve sitting on his beanbag chair under the Christmas tree, his sketchbook and pencil in hand and the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips, like it always did when he sketched. For a moment Tony was almost too awestruck at Steve's sheer beauty to remember how to walk, and probably would've just stood there gaping like an idiot for the rest of the night if Steve hadn't looked up, smiling widely as his eyes met Tony's.

"Everything okay?" he asked, setting down his sketchbook as Tony slid onto the beanbag chair next to him. Warmth bloomed across his chest as Steve wrapped his strong arm around Tony's shoulders, tucking him close. Tony had always believed that he was so affectionate with Peter for Peter's sake, because he was the one who had always craved the tactile comfort.

But it had actually been Tony all along. Oh, it was Peter as well, as at age twelve his boy still loved to cuddle, but Tony hadn't realised just how touch-starved he was until Steve came along.

And now, he just couldn't seem to get enough.

"Yeah, hon," he whispered as he laid his head down on Steve's chest, squeezing his eyes closed as he breathed in a deep, shuddering breath. It was almost overwhelming, the amount of love he could feel radiating from Steve, love he still felt he didn't quite deserve, but was too damn selfish to want to refuse.

"Yeah," he said again as he tilted his head, looking up into Steve's perfect eyes, blue with just the slightest hint of green.

"Everything's perfect."

* * *

_**Stop by and see me on tumblr, I’m[geekymoviemom](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/geekymoviemom) and [geeky-writes](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/geeky-writes) there! 😊 ** _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! ♥️ 
> 
> I thrive on kudos and comments, so please don’t hesitate to hit that kudos button and leave me a comment! ♥️ ♥️


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